


emotional consequences of romantic expressionism

by pentaghastly



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Jon and the Starks Are Not Related, arya/gendry and ygritte/val are mentioned, except replace weird with fluffy, friends w benefits babey, jon and sansa start boning and....gasp.....it gets Complicated, to quote varric tethras: all this shit is weird
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-03
Updated: 2019-05-03
Packaged: 2020-02-18 12:05:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18699274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pentaghastly/pseuds/pentaghastly
Summary: And thus ends the incredibly awkward, entirely convoluted, not-quite-friendship of Jon Snow and Sansa Stark.(So, yeah, all of the best things in life have endings.Which is why, without a doubt, her crush on Jon Snow has to be one of the worst.)





	emotional consequences of romantic expressionism

**Author's Note:**

> i received a request for modern au jon/sansa, and i'm nothing if not giving
> 
> comments/kudos are much appreciated xx

.

 

Sansa Stark is firmly aware of the fact that all of the best things in life have endings.

Weekends. Books. A freshly-baked tray of lemon cakes. Pride and Prejudice, the best version, the one with Keira Knightly and Matthew Macfadyen. The Rihanna concert that she ended up spending half of her bank account on in order to snag front row seats. College.

Relationships.

(Not to sound too much like the tortured English major that she is.

It’s just – you can think that it’ll be something that lasts forever, but then people die, or they leave, and that’s it.

It’s just that a relationship is, by definition, temporary.)

 

.

 

Parties, too – parties also end.

Thank fuck for that.

She’d only gone because, well, because she’s _terrible_ at saying no to Margaery, or to Robb, or to anyone, really. So when her brother had invited her to his fraternity’s start-of-term celebration and her best friend had insisted that they attend (thanks in no small part, she’s sure, to the blossoming relationship between the two), Sansa had caved in a matter of seconds.

She’s very much regretting that now. The party itself isn’t inherently awful, and she knows at least a quarter of the people who’re there, but she also has to watch Margie and Robb make out against the kitchen counter for hours and _really_ , who feels the need to stick their tongue that far down another person’s throat?

“They’re like dogs in heat,” she says, grateful that they’ve moved outside and she no longer has to shout over the music – the horrible, obnoxious, pulsating music – so that Jon can hear her.

His nose scrunches up slightly, but whether it’s out of disgust or because he’s trying not to laugh Sansa isn’t sure. “How are they breathing? _Are_ they breathing?” 

“If it wasn’t so disturbing –” 

“Like a horror film,” Jon agrees.

“If it _wasn’t_ , I’d probably be impressed.” 

This is one thing she can always count on: Jon, being equally as uncomfortable and equally as exhausted as she is. There are a lot of things in this world that are fundamentally impermanent, but Jon Snow seems to be one of the few exceptions to the rule. 

He’s not her friend. He’s barely even her acquaintance, but on nights like these – 

On nights where they’re both tired and out of place and ready to go home, Jon is her saving grace.

Funny, that.

They’re sitting on the back porch, just the two of them. It should be awkward – it is, a little bit, but there’s a comfort in it, too. Consistency, as it turns out, is remarkably reassuring.

It’s warm, unseasonably so, and the air is sticky and humid and it feels like it’s full of potential. Pregnant with it. She doesn’t know what it is, but there’s something about tonight that’s different; maybe it’s the pattern of the stars, or the absence of wind rustling the leaves, or the way that Jon’s black t-shirt is a little bit damp with sweat and clinging to him in all the right places – 

(Maybe it’s the punch that Theon had proudly served her at the beginning of the night, claiming that it’d ‘ _knock her off her feet_ ’.

It’s probably that.)

Maybe it’s nothing, but she has to wonder if Jon can feel it too.

“Parties like this always remind me of Joffrey.” It’s not exactly the most uplifting party talk, but she’s comfortable enough talking with Jon that she’s sure he can handle it. “He _loved_ dragging me to them, and then ditching me five minutes in so he could make out with some other girl in a closet.” 

Jon scoffs. “The offer still stands, you know.” 

She doesn’t. “Which offer is that, exactly?”

“The offer I made the night you two broke up. The offer for me to go beat him bloody.” 

It is, unquestionably, a very tempting offer. But she knows Jon, and she knows how non-violent he is (both by nature and by rule), and she knows that Cersei Lannister would have the head of anyone who dared lay a hand on her precious boy.

Sansa knows motherly love is supposed to be unconditional. It’s just…she can’t help but pity Cersei, for having to unconditionally love something like _that_.

“Ask me after another drink,” Sansa says, “and then we’ll see.”

(Because, really, it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.

Jon, sweaty, with bloodied knuckles, fighting to defend her honour. Maybe it’s a completely improbable fantasy – maybe Jon is definitely, maybe, fifty percent joking when he suggests it. There’s a lot of maybes, but Sansa figures that she’s entitled to her fantasy.)

“Ygritte is here,” Jon says, unprompted, and it snaps her out of her daze a little bit. Probably for the best. “With Val.” 

_Ah._

“I saw.” Two of your ex-girlfriends dating one another…well, Sansa can’t imagine the feeling, but she’s sure it’s not a good one. “Are you okay?” 

“I’m happy for them. They seem like they’re really in love.”

“That’s great, Jon,” she says, slowly, as if she’s speaking to a child. “But are _you_ okay?”

He pauses, only for a moment. “I’m fine. Brilliant, actually. Um.” Another pause. “Well, no. Bit awkward, seeing your two exes happy while you’re going through the dry spell of the century.” 

That, at least, Sansa can sympathize with.

“Don’t you _dare_ complain about dry spells in front of me, Jon Snow.” 

Jon squints. “Not that it’s a contest –” 

“The most pathetic contest in the world, really.” 

“But if it was –” 

“Which,” she scoffs, “now that you’ve said so, it absolutely is.”

“Five months.” 

At least Jon looks a _little_ bit embarrassed. This whole thing is just absurd enough that it requires at least a little bit of shame.

Still, let it never be said that Sansa Stark is a loser.

“Seven,” she counters, feeling bizarrely proud of her victory. 

He raises his hands beside his head in concession, a smile playing at his (annoyingly pouty) lips. “I concede. You, Sansa Stark, are getting much less sex than I am.”

“You’d do well not to forget it.”

He laughs, as loud as she’s ever heard Jon laugh (which is to say, not very loud at all), and through the low light Sansa can see that he’s looking at her with an affection that, well – it feels almost impossible to quantify. 

She’s not sure what possesses her to say what she says next, only that she _says_ it, and once she says it she can’t exactly take it back. 

“If you don’t have anywhere else to be tonight,” she says, feeling both incredibly bold and exceptionally shy all at once, “I think I’ve got a solution to both of our problems back at mine.”

Jon, bless his heart, has the good graces to look confused.

“Sans, I don’t –” 

“What I’m saying,” she interrupts, because everything has to end, even dry spells, even this conversation, “is that, you know, if you really want to help me celebrate my victory – I mean, I wouldn’t be opposed to us doing it.” 

 

.

 

She finds out rather quickly that Jon…

Well, Jon isn’t much opposed to it either.

And thus ends the incredibly awkward, entirely convoluted friendship of Jon Snow and Sansa Stark.

 

.

 

Except, of course, everyone know that every end is, unfortunately, a beginning.

 

.

 

Jon leaves her apartment at ten fifty-one the next morning, with a kiss on the cheek and an awkward wave.

He leaves her feeling…

 _Fond_.

That, Sansa thinks, is new.

She doesn’t spend much of the day dwelling on it – dwelling on _him_. She knows that Jon is a bit of a romantic, but she also knows that he values his head and if he doesn’t want Robb to bash it in then he’ll probably treat this as what it should be:

An incredibly surprising, extremely satisfying kind of one-off.

She doesn’t spend much of the day dwelling on it.

If you asked her, well, she’d tell you that she hardly even spent five minutes thinking about his head between her legs. She’d say that she certainly didn’t dream about the rough of his beard tickling the inside of her thighs, and she _absolutely_ doesn’t have a catalogue of all of the wicked things he’d whispered against her neck stored securely in her mind.

She doesn’t have any of that, because that would imply that it’s something more than it was, which it almost certainly wasn’t.

Definitely wasn’t.

Couldn’t be.

 

.

 

**12:23 PM**

_Hey Jon! It’s Sansa. I mean, you probably know that because you have call display like every other human being on the planet, but – _fuck_ , voicemails are really awkward, aren’t they? Just wanted to let you know that I think you left your credit card here yesterday…well, I know you did, because found it under my bed this morning, and I really don’t know how it got there but I guess we weren’t the most careful, were we? Feel free to swing by whenever to pick it up! I’ll be home all day. Bye!_

**12:26 PM**

_Hi! Sansa again. Just wanted to make it abundantly clear that this is absolutely not a booty call. You probably weren’t thinking that anyways, but just in case: not a booty call. Right. So. Bye!_

 

.

 

Except, okay –

So, _fuck_ , maybe it was a booty call.

(Is a phone call placed to make a past-hookup aware they left something at your house a booty call if the sex is only a convenient side effect?

Probably, yes.) 

For once in her life, Sansa doesn’t want to talk about it.

She doesn’t want to talk about what they are or where they’re going or how they’re going to end up there in one piece. She doesn’t want to tell him “ _Oh, you know, I’ve been a bit fucked up by past relationships but I think I really like you,_ ” and she doesn’t want him to tell her, “ _That’s okay, I’ve been a bit fucked up too_.”

It’s unnecessary. It’s redundant. They both know what they’re doing here; they both know, as she practically tears his shirt up and over his head, that something like this – 

Something like this is, by definition, temporary.

 

.

 

Thus marks the start of, well –

The start of whatever the fuck it is that they’re doing.

There’s a party, or an event, or something that sounds like a nightmare regardless of what category it technically falls into. Sansa fakes sick, or bored, or tired, or some combination of the three, and Jon, ever the gentleman, offers to accompany her home.

Margaery’s eyes follow the two of them, a little too suspicious, a little too sharp. Arya lingers a moment too long. Robb remains eternally, blessedly, oblivious to everything that’s happening around him.

The sex is good.

After the sex is, somehow, even better.

They curl up on her couch and watch shitty movies, or shitty television, and cook up the greasiest post-fuck food that they can find. She’s known Jon for as long as she’s known anyone, really, so she doesn’t have to worry about how she looks in front of him – Sansa ties her hair up in horribly messy buns and wears ratty sweatshirts that are barely hanging together and, somehow, Jon still looks at her as though she’s the prettiest thing he’s ever seen.

She doesn’t want to think about that.

Her feet are cold and his are worm and they curl up under a fuzzy blanket, which is surprisingly comfortable considering that Sansa normally hates cuddling. Joffrey was horrible at it – he always used it as an opportunity to grope her, clumsy and aggressive. Jon…Jon just holds her, soft and sweet, and she can hardly think of another place in the world that she’d rather be.

She doesn’t want to think about that, either.

“One of these nights,” he says, after she’s turned on Clueless and is swooning over Paul Rudd’s smile, “you’re going to let me pick the movie.” 

“We’re _not_ watching Lord of the Rings, Jon.” 

“If you would just –” 

“It’s a _total_ mood killer!” 

“It has romance,” he says, clearly not allowing the topic to drop, “and don’t act like you don’t have a crush on Aragorn.” 

“Everyone has a crush on Aragorn. That doesn’t mean I want to sit around and watch three hours of orc and elves post-coitus.” 

“I can’t believe you just said _post-coitus_.” He’s smiling, not properly, but smiling that special sort of Jon smile, the one that rests mostly in his eyes. “You massive dork.” 

“Says the guy who wants to watch Lord of the Rings after sex.” 

“One of these nights,” he repeats, pouting adorably. “Just once, I’ll win.”

There’s an implication in his words.

 _One of these nights_ , meaning that there are more nights to come, more nights of this, and it’s starting to feel less and less like an indefinable, blurred-lines, friends-with-benefits scenario and a little bit more like –

“Okay,” he concedes, cutting through her thoughts, “Okay, so maybe…this isn’t half bad, I guess.”

He’s talking about the movie.

He’s clearly, obviously talking about the movie.

Still, Sansa can’t help but feel like the universe is laughing at her, laughing about how easily she could fool herself into believing that he’s talking about something else.

 

.

 

None of this has anything to do with the fact that she maybe, possibly, has had a crush on Jon since she was twelve years old.

That would possibly be a bigger deal, if not for the fact that _everyone_ she knew had a crush on Jon. Handsome and brooding, the mysterious bad boy with a heart of gold – who could resist that? What teenage girl could possibly help fantasizing about running their hand through those ridiculous curls and –

It’s not just her. It never had been just her.

There was one minor issue. Just a small one, really rather insignificant, but she’s sure that if anyone knew about it they would feel as though they’d had an _Ah-ha!_ moment, as if her sudden foray into a no-strings relationship suddenly made perfect sense.

The thing is…the thing is that pretty much everyone that she knew who had a crush on Jon had done as most normal humans do and, well, moved the fuck on.

Everyone except her.

(So, yeah, all of the best things in life have endings.

Which is why, without a doubt, her crush on Jon Snow has to be the worst.)

 

.

 

They’re about half-way towards Jon’s car after the latest Kappa Sigma shit show when a (thankfully empty) red solo cup hits her in the back of the head.

“Shit, sorry.” Arya doesn’t _look_ sorry – not even a bit. “Was aiming for Jon.” 

“No, you weren’t.”

Her sister pauses for a moment, then grins, delighted. “No, I wasn’t.”

“We’ve got to go, Arya. Sansa’s not feeling well.” 

“I know.” She knows the tone that Arya’s taking right now – mischievous, suspicious, as if she already knows how this is going to end and is just waiting for them to get there. “Actually, I’m not either. Must’ve been the punch.”

“You don’t drink punch, Arya.” 

“Can I crash at yours tonight, Sans? It’s been so long since we’ve had a girls night.” 

“We _never_ have girls nights.” 

“See? It’s been ages.” 

Sansa looks at Jon, then, and Jon looks at her, and she knows that their expressions must be mirroring each other – desperation, and resignation, and a mild undercurrent of panic. They both know what this means.

Well. All the best things have to end, after all. It was only a matter of time.

“I’m not staying at my place tonight, Arya.” 

“ _Obviously_.”

“Because I’m staying at Jon’s.” 

Her sister snorts, clearly unimpressed. “Doesn’t take a genius to figure that one out.”

“Because we’ve been having sex.”

“I know – wait.” Arya looks…well, she doesn’t look like the sort of person who knows anything, not at the moment. “You’re – you’re _what_?”

Sansa gulps.

Arya blinks.

Jon – Jon _laughs_.

“Hang on,” he said, between uncharacteristically loud cackling, “what did you _think_ we were doing?”

“I thought – fuck, I thought you were…I mean, I thought you were planning a surprise party for mum’s birthday or some shit without me!” 

“How,” Sansa sputters, in as much disbelief as her sister currently seems to be, “is that the more likely outcome?”

“Because it’s you and Jon! It’s _weird_!”

“Two attractive single people?” Sansa scoffs. “The _scandal_ of it all.” 

“Robb is going to kill you,” she says, jabbing an accusing finger at Jon.

Jon, for his part, looks incredibly unbothered by the whole situation. “I’ve lived a long, fulfilling life. There’re worse ways to go out.”

Arya looks between the two of them, as if piecing together a puzzle that she’s spent lifetime trying to solve.

“Can you give us a minute, Jon?”

He looks like he wants to argue – looks like, but Jon’s known her sister for long enough to know that when her mind is made up, there’s really nothing that can be done to change it. Trying to do so just leads to far more trouble than it’s worth.

He looks like he wants to argue, but then he gives Sansa’s hand – the hand that he’d been holding since they left the party, the one that she _forgot_ he was holding, because she’s grown so horrifyingly accustomed to the feeling of it in hers – he gives her hand a squeeze, and he heads in the direction of the car.

Arya’s still glaring at her.

“Jon isn’t Joffrey,” she says.

“I’m not Ygritte,” Sansa counters, not really sure what point she’s trying to make.

“He’s _good_ , Sansa. Jon’s not the kind of guy you just – and I _know_ you’re not the sort to fuck him around either, I know that, but sometimes…I just don’t even think you’re aware of it, really.” 

“Aware of what?” she asks, because obviously she’s _not_. Aware of it, that is.

“Of the way people look at you. The way Jon looks at you. The way that you look at _him_.” 

She doesn’t like what Arya’s implying.

“I don’t think,” Sansa says, because she doesn’t know what else to say, “I like what you’re implying.” 

Arya huffs, but she’s got that look back in her eyes – the one that tells Sansa that her sister knows, without question, that she’s just won. “Because you know that I’m right.” 

Sansa storms off, and pretends she doesn’t hear Arya laughing behind her.

 

.

 

 

Jon looks beautiful, all rumpled and well-sexed in bed beside her, and this…

This isn’t _her_.

“This isn’t me,” she says, when they’re done and she’s able to catch her breath again.

“It’s not?” Sansa doesn’t like how Jon is looking at her. She doesn’t like how much she really, really likes it. “That’s a shame.” 

“I don’t _do_ this.” 

“But you just did,” Jon points out, “three times in the past hour.”

“I haven’t – I mean, I _have_ , obviously, but I normally don’t, and I don’t, like…I don’t usually _want_ to, you know? With anyone. Ever. Especially not people that I’ve known since I could walk.” 

“Sans,” he says, soft and sweet and gentle, saying her name like it’s something special, “Sans, it’s okay. There’s two people in this bed, remember?”

“Believe me, it’d be pretty difficult to forget that.” 

“So you’re not alone in feeling a bit fucked up about it. I think it’s safe to say that we’re both going in a bit blind here, yeah?”

“Full-on, eyes-gouged-out levels of blind.”

He wrinkles his nose, adorably, ridiculously. “Sexy.” 

Everything had been fine until Arya. Everything had been _perfect_ until Arya, but then Arya had done what Arya did best and wormed her way into Sansa’s head, made her doubt everything she thought that she knew about herself.

She hates her sister. She hates her sister and her uncanny, infuriating ability to be correct ninety-nine percent of the time.

Because whatever it is that her and Jon are doing here – whatever it is that they’ve started, it’s something dangerous and wonderful and something that Sansa’s not sure that she’s ever going to be able to come back from. It’s something big, and beautiful, and it’s something that’s going to have to end and… _fuck_ , she’s not going to want it to.

Jon kisses her, soft and sweet, kisses the tip of her nose and the crease of her forehead that she knows pops up when she’s overthinking.

“Not everything ends badly, Sans.”

See – that’s exactly what she’s worried about.

Not everything ends badly, sure.

But everything…

Everything _ends_.

 

.

 

Jon’s not Joffrey.

Jon doesn’t yell. He doesn’t wrap his hands around her wrist and _pull_ , doesn’t squeeze so tight she’s afraid it might break when she says or does something that he doesn’t like.

He doesn’t call her names ( _stupid, pathetic, weak, bitch, bitch, bitch_ ). He doesn’t make her feel like she’s worthless – he calls her beautiful and texts her a few times a day just to ask how she’s feeling and then, one time, when she actually is sick and it stops being part of their ruse…one time Jon takes the train for an hour just to bring her soup, and flowers.

He watches Pride and Prejudice with her.

He doesn’t mention Lord of the Rings once.

Jon’s not Joffrey. He’s not Harry, or Petyr, or Ramsay. There’s not a single part of their relationship that even slightly resembles what she’d had with any of them, and that’s the thing:

It _is_ a relationship.

They cuddle. He’s the first person that she wants to text about her day, and she’s the person that he calls after he finds out he got the TA position in Mormont’s class. Sometimes he drops by unannounced with her favourite takeout and a cheap bottle of wine, and she’s not annoyed with the fact that he doesn’t text her first – she’s _elated_. She’s happy to see him.

She misses him when he’s gone.

It’s a relationship, and Sansa doesn’t know how they found themselves in the middle of it but she knows, without a question or a doubt, what it is that she has to do now.

She just really, really wishes that she didn’t.

 

.

 

**2:37 AM**  
_hi jon! it’s sansa._

_sorry idk why I keep doing that. you obviously know it’s me._

**2:38 AM**  
_this isn’t a booty call._

_margaery came over and we drank a lot of rosé and watched sixteen candles and it got me thinking that maybe i should tell you that i think that i’m in love with you and thus will no longer be available for sex. i apologize for the inconvenience that this might cause._

**2:40 AM**  
_idk why i wrote that like a work email._

_please do not respond to these texts._

 

.

 

Margaery wakes her up by throwing her phone at her face.

“ _Jesus_ ,” Sansa says, pushing herself up groggily from her pillows. “What is it with people and throwing things lately?”

“Jon Snow’s been calling you for the past three hours.” 

Sansa checks the time – eight forty in the morning, and somehow her best friends happens to be immaculately dressed. She doesn’t even look a bit hungover, the absolute bitch, and Sansa is immensely grateful for the fact that there’s not a mirror in sight right now.

Still. She doesn’t need one to know the kind of state that she’s in.

“Good. Let it ring.”

“Too late,” Margaery shrugs, casual and impossibly smug. “I answered the last one, and he told me that you _dumped_ him last night. Which is interesting, because I wasn’t aware that you were dating.”

Sansa huffs. “We weren’t.”

“He doesn’t seem to be aware of that.”

“We were fucking,” Sansa concedes, still half asleep. “There’s a significant difference.” 

“Not to you, there isn’t.”

“What does _that_ mean?”

Margaery sighs, long-suffering, and Sansa knows that she’s in for a sanctimonious speech on the state of her own love life. She’s been on the receiving end of enough of them by now, and Margaery, bless her heart, can be incredibly predictable.

“Sansa,” Margie says, “I’ve known you for how long now?” 

“Six years.” Six long, _long_ years.

“And how many one night stands have you had in that period of time? Or casual, no-strings relationships?” 

Sansa huffs. “I refuse to justify that with a response.”

“ _Zero_ ,” Margaery answers for her, and Sansa hates the fact that she’s right. “Right up until now, that is. And for how many of the years since we’ve known each other have you been in love with Jon Snow?”

“I’m not in love with –” 

“ _Sansa_ ,” Margaery snaps, although there’s no venom in her voice. She looks imploring, and tired, and a little bit concerned, and for a moment Sansa actually feels badly. “Come on, now. You’ve not exactly been subtle. Remember that poem you wrote?”

 _Gods,_ does she ever; it hadn’t exactly been her finest work. “If you’re talking about Snow’s Song, that was a coincidence.” 

“And it was also a coincidence, you crying when he brought Ygritte to your eighteenth birthday?” 

“I was crying because he messed up the guest list! You can’t just _bring_ someone –” 

“Someone hot,” Margaery pointed out – _unhelpfully_ pointed out.

“Ygritte isn’t that hot.” 

“Yes, she is.”

Fuck.

She really is.

“None of this means that I’m in love with Jon, Margaery.” 

“Except,” Marg says, soft and slow – kind, but frustrated, “you told him last night that you are, and then he told me that you told him that, and now I’m telling you because you seem to have forgotten. Selective memory isn’t a cute look for you, sweetling.” 

She’s run out of arguments. For once in her life, Sansa really hasn’t got a clue what there is left for her to say, or how she can possibly defend her point any further than she already has.

So she pulls her comforter back up over her head, and sticks her hand out just enough so that she’s able to give her best friend – her insufferable, obnoxiously perceptive and completely nosy best friend – the kind of crude hand gesture that she’d typically only reserve for Arya.

Jon keeps calling.

Sansa keeps ignoring it.

Everything goes back to how it was.

The End.

 

.

 

Except, of course, everyone know that every end is, unfortunately, a beginning.

 

.

 

It takes seven hours and eleven days for her to start really, properly missing him.

Jon stopped calling after the third day, and since then – radio silence. Sansa can’t blame him for giving up. Being completely shuttered out of someone’s life is a pretty clear ‘ _fuck off_ ’ signal, and that’s exactly what she’d wanted him to do.

So maybe she’s a bit (irrationally) upset that he’s not fighting for her more. Maybe she’s a _bit_ offended that it’d only taken him three days to throw in the towel. Maybe she’s a bit pissed off at herself, too, because things had been going really well until she’d seen Jake Ryan on her television screen and had the horrific realization that she couldn’t even be attracted to him, not anymore, because the only person she wanted to kiss her over a birthday cake is Jon.

 _Pathetic_.

Every end is a beginning, and when she breaks up with Jon (is it still a breakup if you were never technically dating in the first place?) – when she breaks up with Jon, a new part of her life begins:

Chapter One:

Sansa Stark Pines, Miserable in a Quandary of Her Own Creation.

She doesn’t know what she’s supposed to do. She’s never felt like _this_ before, not when one of her relationships had ended. She’s never felt anything even close to this.

When Sansa dumped Joffrey, she felt a prisoner ripping free of her chains. When she caught Harry cheating on her she’d been angry, and then she’d been relieved. When she’d reported Petyr Baelish to the Dean and had him fired for inappropriate conduct, she’d been vindicated. When she’d called Ramsay out for being the creepy little fuck that he was, she’d felt powerful.

With Jon…

She just really, _really_ misses Jon.

She misses the little back rubs he used to give her. She misses his quiet commentary while they watch The Great British Bakeoff together, and how he tried to pretend like he wasn’t crying at the end of Edward Scissorhands. She misses how he’d wake her up with a kiss to her forehead, soft and sweet, and how he’d leave little notes in the kitchen for her if he had to go before she got out of bed.

She misses him.

There’s a time where she asks Robb how he’s doing and he gives her this look – not like he knows anything that went down between the two of them, just like he’s _confused_ , like she’s suddenly started speaking a different language.

“Since when do you care about Jon?” he asks, and Sansa has to stop herself from bursting into laughter, or tears, or perhaps a combination of the two.

“Since always, love,” Margaery answers for her, gaze narrowed and suspicious but ultimately kind.

“Since always,” Sansa agrees, and that’s the end of it.

So maybe – maybe she’d made a mistake. Maybe she’d been scared, and impulsive, and when she did what she thought was the right thing for both of them she’d ended up causing more heartbreak than she would have thought was possible. 

They must’ve been in a proper relationship after all, Sansa thinks. She’s pretty sure that ending something casual doesn’t hurt as badly as this does.

“You’re an idiot,” Arya says to her, the night that Sansa shows up on the doorstep of the flat she shares with Gendry – she shows up with ice cream and Pretty in Pink, even though she knows how much her sister hates it, and she nods her head in agreement when Arya speaks. “For the smartest person I know, you’re a complete fucking idiot.”

Sansa pines.

She pines, and she plans.

 

.

 

Three weeks, two days, and – fuck, she’s kind of lost track of the hours – since the Mistake, Sansa gets her chance:

Robb’s frat is having another party.

Jon, Robb tells her, is “ _Being a mopey little prick and refusing to go_.” 

So Sansa declares that she also won’t be attending, that she thinks she’s coming down with something and she needs a night to just… _be_.

Robb whines.

Margaery grins.

 

.

 

She knocks on Jon’s door at precisely nine thirty in the evening.

He answers the door thirty-two, and she plasters on a smile that feels – a bit plastic. Partially sincere, carefully practiced. _Off_. Everything about her feels off right now.

Jon just…looks at her.

That feels off, too.

“I have come to the conclusion,” she says, “that I may have been a bit of a –” 

“It’s fine, Sansa.” 

_Not_ the greeting she’d been expecting.

“I’ve been a bit of a bitch,” she continues, reaching up nervously to scratch at her shoulder. Why had she worn this sweater? “Massive one, actually, and I’d like to apologize. I just – _fuck_ , are you itchy? Gods, this is embarrassing. Can I…I mean, would you mind?”

Sansa doesn’t wait for an answer before she pushes her way inside.

“Go right ahead,” she hears Jon mutter behind her, but if he wanted her out he’d say so.

Wouldn’t he?

“I’d like to say that I’m sorry,” she says, “because I took my awful relationship history out on you, and that’s not fair.”

“It’s not,” Jon agrees.

“But, in my defense, I was fully under the impression that you wanted –” 

“You never _asked_ what I wanted, Sans.” 

“And you never said. So, frankly, I think we’re both the arseholes here.” 

He’s trying not to laugh. She can tell – Jon always has this little twitch of his eyebrow when he’s really, desperately trying to keep a straight face.

“So. I’ve had some shitty boyfriends.” 

“Understatement of the century.”

“I’ve had some very shitty boyfriends and. Well. I know you’re not them. You’re nothing like them, and that’s very scary because – when things ended with them, I was happy.” She sighs, taking a breath to steady her words before continuing. “I know…stuff finishes, right? Like, there’s an expiration date on everything. That’s life. And I didn’t – I knew there was an expiration date on us, and I thought it would hurt less if I did it sooner rather than later.”

Jon takes a step forward, cautious, like she’s a wild animal that he’s worried he’ll frighten away. “Not everything has to end, Sansa.” 

“Yes,” she says, with something between a hiccup and a sob and a laugh, “it does.” 

(She’s seen…

She’s seen too many things end.

Her dad. Her aunt. Her uncle and grandfather. Bran – his dreams of being a football player, the future he laid out for himself.

Finished.)

“It does,” she repeats, a little bit more confident, “but I didn’t realize…I didn’t think it could be _good_. That, you know, we could end whatever we were doing before and – Gods, you’re going to think this is so dumb.” 

“I won’t,” Jon says, taking another step, and she believes him.

“I didn’t realize that we could end what we were doing before, and just – I guess, make it something better.” 

He’s smiling, but it’s that special sort of Jon smile, the one that rests mostly in his eyes.

He’s smiling.

She panics.

“So! That’s what I came to say.” Sansa turns back towards the door, pushing past him and towards the safety of – of somewhere else, somewhere far away that’s literally _anywhere_ but there. “Thank you for your time, you’ve been very attentive.” 

“Sansa, I –” 

“Have a lovely evening!”

“ _Sansa_.” His voice is firm, firmer than she’s ever heard it before, and it’s enough to stop her in her tracks. “What’s in the bag?”

 _Oh_.

“Oh. That.” She’d forgotten she was holding it, honestly. She kind of wishes she wasn’t, but he’s noticed and it’s too late for her to do anything other than open it up so he can see. “It’s –” 

“Lord of the Rings,” Jon finishes for her, sparing her the embarrassment.

“Yeah. All three.” 

“On Blu-Ray. I didn’t know it was 2006.” 

“I bought them a while ago,” she huffs, “and I wasn’t sure if you owned all of them – anyways, it was more about the symbolic gesture, you know? Because I was thinking that –” 

He kisses her (entle, sweet, familiar, _Jon_ ) before she can finish her sentence.

Thank god for that.

 

.

 

Sansa Stark is firmly aware of the fact that all of the best things in life have endings.

The Fellowship of the Ring. The Two Towers. The Return of the King. Every hour of bonus content that the Blu-Ray disks have for each. 

So sure, maybe it’s true – maybe a relationship is, by definition, temporary.

But Jon Snow, kissing her senseless with the (incredibly romantic) soundtrack of Sam carrying Frodo playing on in the background…

Jon Snow feels pretty fucking permanent.

 

.


End file.
